Some people might call me a high bottom alcoholic, but I know different. Even now, just five days in, dark images from the past are showing themselves, unbidden.
Why so soon? This process — the bubbling up of raw emotion and regret —used to take some time. But given my many attempts to quit drinking, it has become condensed somehow, as if I’m running out of time to get things right. Only yesterday, something triggered a dim memory, and suddenly grief blindsided me, pulling me under so quickly that I felt a visceral seizing up in my chest. It hurt, and the thought came to me: This is why I drank.
I never feel like this while drinking. Nothing makes it through the sulfur haze that fogs my brain. It was shocking to feel again so physically, and I had no recourse but to wait for its passing.
From this dark place, I decided that blogging wouldn’t work for me. Who was I kidding? The world didn’t need another blog, at least not from me. I had nothing to offer. I had written one post and had no responses. I knew that it was unreasonable to feel this way, but it didn’t matter. It signaled failure to me, with an added twinge of rejection – something I wasn’t willing to experience. I felt like the words had been wasted, drifting out somewhere in the atmosphere, dissipating in a swirl of mist, meaningless.
I decided to delete my one embarrassing post and close down the site. Unless … unless within the hour, (I bargained with whatever angel, ghost, or deity might be listening), unless within the hour, one person responded. I would consider it a sign.
Later, walking back to my computer, I allowed myself just a wisp of hope. I snapped up the screen … and there it was.
One response. One perfect response.
Somebody out there heard me.